‘I mean,’ he pleaded, pulling a pious expression, ‘I want to give good service, I am most skilled as a clerk.’ Westminster, Corbett ruefully conceded, was full of such men clamouring for promotion. Benedict Le Sanglier was from the English-held province of Gascony; now in England, he was determined to secure advancement through the royal service into a host of benefices. Corbett had eventually been rescued by Ranulf, who whispered how the abbess’ chaplain, with his clear eyes, smooth shaved face and mop of neatly cut blond hair, was truly a sheep in wolf’s clothing.
Corbett sipped the sweet wine, then hastily put his goblet down as the music ended. Brother Gratian abruptly rose to sing grace in a high nasal tone. After the benediction, the trumpeters in the minstrel gallery blew long, sharp blasts as the cooks processed incarrying the main dishes, venison, pork, quail and fish all served in piquant sauces, whilst servants hurried along the dais with jugs of the richest claret. A true feast. Corbett ate well but drank sparingly, appreciating that the real business would begin once the banquet ended. He became involved in courteous but bland conversation with Scrope and Dame Marguerite about the doings of the court, the politics of Westminster, the Scottish threat, the weather and the urgent need for the King to implement his Statute of Highways. Frumentaries and pastries were served. Tumblers, acrobats, jesters and buffoons did their whirling jigs. Scrope’s troubadour, who rejoiced in the name of Shilling, led the ale minstrels and gleemen in singing an old Crusader hymn, which Corbett thoroughly enjoyed.
The meal then ended. Those dining beneath the salt around tables ranged along the hall, Chanson included, were left to their feasting whilst Lord Scrope and his guests on the dais adjourned to the solar on the floor above. This was a comfortable timber-rafted room, the area around the great hearth partitioned off by screens decorated with scenes from the life of King Arthur. Chairs and stools had been placed before the roaring fire; tables in between these bore goblets and jugs of wine and ale. Scrope and Lady Hawisa took the central chairs, gesturing at the others to take the same seating arrangement as at the banquet. At first Corbett was surprised that all had been invited, but then concluded that Lord Oliver must view his other guests as allies and supporters. Once the servants had withdrawn, Scrope, his sweaty face wreathed in a false smile, gestured at Corbett.
‘Sir Hugh, you are most welcome. I understand his grace hassent you to deal with certain matters.’ He played with the ring on the little finger of his left hand.
‘The Sanguis Christi.’ Corbett decided the time for courtesy was over.
‘It will be handed over as promised.’
‘And the assassin’s dagger?’
‘That too!’
‘To me?’ Corbett demanded.
‘The assassin’s dagger is truly the King’s,’ Scrope agreed.
‘Stolen by felons.’
‘Apprehended by Lord Oliver,’ Master Claypole intervened ‘as well as by the vigilance of the King’s loyal subjects in Mistleham.’
‘Yes, yes,’ Corbett soothed. ‘The felon Le Riche tried to sell the item to a goldsmith?’
‘Namely me.’ Claypole smirked. ‘I too am a member of that guild. I lured the thief to the guildhall, where Lord Oliver’s men were waiting to arrest him.’
‘And the dagger is of rolled gold?’ Ranulf asked innocently. He and Corbett had rehearsed these questions on their journey here.
‘Ah, no.’ Claypole looked confused.
‘So why sell it to a goldsmith?’ Corbett intervened. ‘I mean, he had no other items taken from the crypt?’
‘Of course not!’ Scrope snapped. ‘Corbett, what are you saying? Le Riche attempted to sell a dagger as something precious. He was seized, tried and hanged. I understand that other members of the gang did similar business in different parts of the kingdom.’
‘I was there,’ Brother Gratian broke in.
‘Were you really?’ Ranulf asked.
‘I shrived the prisoner,’ the Dominican replied.
‘So,’ Corbett leaned back in his chair, ‘Le Riche was apprehended in the guildhall, he was disarmed and searched, the dagger was found upon him and he was detained?’
‘In the dungeons beneath the guildhall,’ Claypole snapped.
‘On the morrow he was tried before me and Master Claypole,’ Lord Scrope declared. He gestured at Benedict Le Sanglier.
‘I was a witness. It was all done according to the law,’ the chaplain spluttered. ‘An evil man, Sir Hugh! Le Riche had been caught red-handed, a traitor …’
‘I do have the power of noose and tumbril in these parts,’ Lord Oliver trumpeted. ‘You know that, Sir Hugh! Le Riche was a self-confessed traitor, a felon caught red-handed, publicly proscribed by the Crown, which had dispatched letters to me and the sheriff at Colchester. In accordance with those instructions I seized Le Riche, tried him, then hanged him.’
‘You could have held him over for further questioning.’
Scrope made a dismissive gesture. ‘A petty felon,’ he declared, ‘who fled with an item stolen from the royal treasury. He could say nothing else, provide no information, except plead for mercy. I showed him that mercy. Brother Gratian shrived him, I gave him wine and food, a comfortable cell.’ Scrope shrugged. ‘And then I hanged him.’
‘That is true,’ Dame Marguerite intervened, her face all smiling. ‘Master Benedict here was an official witness at the execution.’
‘And?’ Corbett turned to the abbess’ chaplain.
‘He seemed wandering in his wits,’ Master Benedict declared. ‘He sprawled in the execution cart, isn’t that true, Brother Gratian? Father Thomas, you too were there.’
‘A poor unfortunate,’ the parish priest replied, ‘long-haired andbearded, poorly clothed. He could hardly stand to climb the ladder. The town’s hangman had to hold him.’
‘And all he carried when arrested was the assassin’s dagger stolen from Westminster?’ Corbett insisted.
‘Sir Hugh,’ Lady Hawisa intervened, her pretty face all concerned, ‘what are you alleging? I was in Mistleham with my husband when Mayor Claypole sent a scurrier with the news that Le Riche was detained.’
‘Are you,’ the mayor declared, ‘implying that Le Riche carried more than a dagger? If he did, we certainly did not see it!’
‘When was Le Riche caught and hanged?’
‘In November, around the Feast of St Cecilia.’
‘Yet the robbery at the abbey took place last April. Didn’t you ask the felon where he’d been for the last seven months?’
‘Yes, in hiding.’
Corbett nodded as if this satisfied him, though in truth it certainly did not. Suspicions pricked his mind, but he thought it would be best to leave the matter for a while. He sensed the mood was changing, but there again, it always did once the pleasantries and courtesies were over, the outer skin of the onion, as Ranulf once described it, peeled off. Now they were to probe what lay beneath.
‘So the Sanguis Christi, you will hand it over?’
‘I have said I will …’
‘To me, the King’s envoy?’
‘Sir Hugh,’ Scrope crossed his legs and smiled, his lips belying the anger blazing in his eyes, ‘I am no rebel, traitor or thief suing for terms. I shall give the King, as I solemnly promised him, the precious relic. I shall do so very soon. Brother Gratian here willreturn to Westminster. He will hand over the Sanguis Christi. He will be my envoy.’
Corbett ignored Ranulf’s hiss of disapproval and stared into the fire. He recalled what he and Maeve had discussed in their solar at the Manor of Leighton, how an individual being was more than flesh and blood, but spirit, the invisible contained within the visible. So it was here: bland stories and easy lies concealed devilish trickery.
‘And the Free Brethren of the Holy Spirit?’ Corbett glimpsed the abrupt shift in Scrope’s eyes and sensed he was walking into a trap. ‘Fourteen people,’ he continued remorselessly, ‘butchered. I believe they were unarmed and not accused of any crime; no law or authority was invoked.’ He let his voice trail off. He sensed he was only helping Scrope, who now sat clearly enjoying himself, chewing the corner of his mouth. Gratian also sat up, preening like a cat. Corbett became acutely aware that the more he said, the deeper the trap would become. Scrope had prepared carefully for this confrontation.